The Something He Knew

I normally don’t wake up when things go bump in the night--I’ve never been afraid of shadows, not until now. 

A week ago, my eyes wouldn’t have flown open at the sound of the door, my form wouldn’t have quivered with panic as the hardwood groaned with weight. 

“It’s just Max,” I’d tell myself, “he always gets home late.” 

A week ago, I’d have slept through the night-- but a week ago, he was alive. 

Ink seeped along my bedroom ceiling, taunting me with the hour. In 6 minutes, Max’ll have been gone for more than a week-- I don’t know if I can stand that thought. 

It was like every other night since the “accident”, and I, an incurable insomniac, was wallowing in my loss. Maxwell Rainy was my fiancé, my friend, my business partner, and now he was dead.  

CAR ACCIDENT KILLS FAMOUS CRIME BLOGGER

  No matter how I tried to forget the headline, the words remained bolded over my vision. “Famous crime blogger.”

They didn’t even use his name. If he were here, he’d laugh at that. 

“You wouldn’t know it’s about me,” he’d chuckle, “if I’m so famous, they’d say ‘Maxwell Rainy Killed’, don’t you think, Har?’

The squeal of door hinges caused me to break from the image. I blinked off the headline as a sweat began to work its way down my neck. In spite of myself, I whispered, “Max?”

He’s not here, Harlow. 

Floorboards groaned under a moving weight, and a cord threaded itself through my spine. 

Somebody’s in my apartment.

Cautiously, I shuffled out of bed, casting my gaze about the room for anything I could use as a weapon. 

My fingers wrapped around a lamp as I treaded to my bedroom door. The footsteps had stopped now, and I squeezed the lamp tight, sneaking a peek outside my cracked door. 

I stifled a gasp, pressing myself against the wall. 

A figure rummaged about my desk, with their back to my door. They were large in stature, and seemed to be looking for something specific. My stare grazed a gun strapped to their hip, and gloves on their trembling hands. Again, fear spread its way through my stomach. 

I swallowed, twisting the engagement ring on my finger as I adjusted my grip on the lamp, slowly opening the door wider. 

“This is crazy,” I thought, taking a step forward, “oh, god, this is crazy. I am going to die.”

My footsteps fell as a feather, as I crept closer toward the figure. 

“Okay, I’m Max’s laptop. I’ve got his latest case,” the person muttered, “where do I go?”

I froze. 

Max’s laptop? 

I must have frozen for too long, because I soon met the clear blue gaze of the invader. 

Those are Max’s eyes--

They were the last things I saw before everything went black. 

* * *

“What should we do with her?”

“What do you mean, ‘what should we do with her?’ We need to question her! She might know something.”

“Ollie, she saw me.”

“Didn’t mean you had to hit her, Nathan.”

“WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!!”

“I don’t know--introduce yourself?! Not cause any physical harm to your brother’s fiancée?”

I groaned, rubbing my temples. My head hurt like the devil.

“What happened?” I muttered, glaring cautiously at the two men hovering over me. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my tank top. 

“Harlow, you might have a concussion,” the first said, rubbing his neck, “my brother hit you pretty hard. How are you feeling?”

“Like crap.” I cast my gaze about the room. It was small, with papers tacked all over the walls, and a large map with little Xs scattered about it. I laid on a pool table with a pillow shoved haphazardly beneath my neck, “where am I?”

“Our humble abode!”

“It looks like a serial killer’s frat-house.”

The second man cast a look at the first, as if to say “now you know why I hit her.”

I turned my gaze from the first guy, to look at the second, “you--why were you in my apartment?!”

“Evidence.”

“What kind of evidence did you expect to find in my home?!” I asked, irritation starting to creep up my neck, “who are you people?”

The first man sighed, “Oliver and Nathan Rainy-- Max’s little brothers.”

“You’re the photographer?! I thought you lived in L.A.”

“Actually,” the second man said, blue eyes somewhat annoyed as he turned away from the first guy, “L.A. is just me: Nate. Nathan, if you’re pissed.” He gave a half-hearted salute, and Oliver rolled his eyes. 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Harlow. Max has told me so much about you-- I was so happy to hear when you agreed to marry him. I’m Oliver, but you’re welcome to call me Ollie, my entire family does it.” 

Max used to talk about his brother exclusively. He’d rant about how his brother had been hired as a photographer for Digital Photographer Magazine or say things like, “once we finish this story, we should go visit my brother’s new art gallery.”

“I… didn’t know there were two of you,” I muttered, looking at the two men. 

With dark eyes, glasses, and sandy hair, Oliver looked nothing like Max. The only similarity I could find was Ollie’s Pink Floyd t-shirt--Max used to collect those like they were made of money. Nathan shared Max’s eyes, but his kept, black hair differed from Max’s unruly, brown mop. 

Nathan laughed bitterly, “you probably didn’t know because Max and I were estranged up until last week.”

“If you were his brothers,” I started, “why weren’t you at the funeral?”

“We were there for the service,” Nathan muttered.

I shook off his sheepish look, anger fueling my words as I asked, “what do you want with his laptop?” 

Nathan looked taken aback for a moment, and I turned toward Ollie, repeating the question. Both of them look struck with the classic, “how do I say this?” look, and again, frustration began to eat at my consciousness.

I finally sighed, hopping off the table, “if none of you are going to say anything, then I guess I’ll just go home and change the locks.”

“Max isn’t dead because of a car crash.”

My blood seemed to run cold as my body locked, the words forming a rope to tie me to the brothers as I stuttered, “y-you um… what?”

“Your fiancé was killed because he knew something. We want to know what it was.” 

I wanted to walk out of there and be done with it. To say, “I saw that car crash. Please never break into my house again, good night,” but something stopped me. 

“You know something felt off about that crime scene.”

Perhaps it was the journalist in me, or maybe it was plain curiosity, but I turned back toward the two brothers, “how do you know?”

“Because, this,” Ollie said, plucking a piece of paper from the wall, “Max sent it the day he died.”

Nathan looked up, guiltily, “I got one too.”

I snatched the letter from Ollie’s hand, soaking up every word. 

Ollie, 

I realize that it’s been a while since I’ve written, but I have a lot I need to tell you. Enclosed is a plane ticket to Chicago--I need you to come see me. I’m in deep, little brother, and I could really use your advice. I know London is a long flight, but please come. It’s probably too dangerous to say much more (my fiancée could come home any minute, and I don’t want her to see me writing you. I need to leave Harlow out of this). If you come, I promise to tell you everything. This one isn’t like anything on the blog, Ollie. Heads-up:  I’m going to write Nate too.  Come to Chicago, and we’ll all talk. I honestly need to see you guys.  

— Max

“He bought you a plane ticket from England?” I whispered, looking up from the letter, “but Max hated spending money.”

Oliver shrugged, “whatever it was must have been worth it. He bought one for Nate too, flew him from L.A.”

I looked towards Nathan, “you guys don’t have any clue what he was doing?”

“None. He died before we even got these. We thought he might have started a post on your website.”

I shook my head, “every case on our site, we wrote and researched together.”

Nate jabbed a finger at the letter, “he said he wanted to leave you out of this one.” 

I slapped the letter onto the pool table, swatting his hand away, “take me home.”

Nathan raised an eyebrow, “what?”

“I… need to process this,” I muttered, “I want to go home.”

* * *

Nathan and Ollie drove in silence. I tucked my legs to my chest as I rode in the backseat, trying to ignore the level of awkwardness that overshadowed the affair. 

“I’ve read the blog,” Ollie stated, about halfway through the drive, “I loved it. Who came up with the whole ‘race’  idea?”

“That was Max.” I muttered, “my old roommate’s a policewoman, so she hooked us up with a couple friends.”

“I thought it was cool,” Nathan chimed in, “it’s just like Max to try solving homicides faster than the police.”

Half a laugh slipped my lips, as Oliver pulled into the parking lot. He looked back, concern dancing in his gaze, “should we check on you tomorrow?”

“Um… if you want to,” I muttered, opening the car door, “what are you guys doing?”

“Trying to make sure you get home safe,” Nate retorted as he slammed the passenger closed, casting his gaze towards the lobby, “obviously.”

“It’s not like anybody’s going to break in, hit me over the head, and kidnap me,” I muttered, and a blush fell over his cheeks, “I’ll be fine.”

“Max would want us to make sure you got to the apartment okay,” Oliver insisted, “we won’t stay if you don’t want us too.”

“Fine.”

We traipsed up the stairs slowly. The Rainy brothers' presence made the ordeal somewhat agonizing, so one can imagine the relief I felt once I reached 12B. 

That relief dissipated immediately once the door squealed open, and I saw the state of my living room. 

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” I shrieked, absolutely appalled. My research files were skewed all about the room. All the furniture was tipped over, and the floorboards looked as if someone had tried to pry them up, “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY APARTMENT?!!” 

Nathan shook his head, eyes wide, “I… didn’t do this.”

Oliver stepped cautiously into the front room, eyes wide as he scanned the scene. I followed him onto the trashed hardwood, silent tears pressing at my gaze.

Max and I bought this place for our future-- and now it’s ruined. 

“Harlow, there’s a note.” Nate’s voice seemed to drop an octave with the sentence. My stomach sank.

“There’s a note?!” I asked, charging over to the counter, where Nathan was looking down at a slip of paper.

HE CAME LOOKING FOR US

I shook my head, lungs desperately trying for air as I backed towards the now-torn couch. 

“Are your computers still here?” Nate whispered, casting his eyes about the room. I blinked, completely taken aback.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, I just--”

“My apartment is trashed,” I muttered, “it’s been broken into twice in one night. I’ve been knocked unconscious, kidnapped, and, also, my fiancé was murdered, apparently. All of this, and you’re wondering where my laptop is?”

“Well, I just thought,” Nathan said, plucking a flash drive from his pocket, “we could use it to find what’s on this. I found it in the pocket of his U2 jacket.”

Ollie’s eyes widened into saucers, “of course! Max used to leave everything in his clothes.”

I thought back to our laundry days, when I’d find stray $100 bills and notes-to-self in the dryer. Max had even hidden my engagement ring in our hamper.

Nathan gave me a quizzical look, “if you don’t have your laptop, we can use something else, I just… thought you’d want to be a part of it. You’re the investigator, after all.”

“It’s different when the victim’s your would-be husband.” The words were barely legible, hardly even a whisper, but there they were. 

Max’s death was different-- and, yeah, it was starting to look very suspicious, but his wasn’t a name fed to me by one of our readers or something I’d read in the obituaries. Maxwell Rainy was my greatest joy. Not only had I known him, I’d loved him. The clues were enticing, almost seductive, and if it had been anyone else, I know “Famous Crime Blogger” Harlow Tate would be all over the story. 

But this was Max. 

“I understand,” Ollie sighed, disappointment fluttering about his gaze, “we’re… very sorry to have bothered you.”

I nodded, biting down hard on my lip as the two brothers left my apartment. 

Once they were out of earshot, I whispered, “Max, what did you do?” 

“How could you just ‘leave me out of it?!’” I thought, white-hot anger beginning to burn at my chest, “How could you just die?! How could you leave me here to live the rest of my life without you?!” I sank to the floor, sobs wracking at my chest as, again, anger took hold of my form, “I was in the next room--you could have told me, but you chose not to! You wrote your estranged brother for help when you could have asked me. When we started Crime a Dozen, we agreed we’d work together!”

My shoulders were shaking violently, my eyes raining, until suddenly, it was morning, and I realized it’d been hours since they’d stopped. 

I sat up, peeling my cheek from the floor, and trying to ignore the throes of my acing muscles. I didn’t know the time, but I knew something else. 

The stone turned in my psyche as I changed into a pair of jeans and one of Max’s old t-shirts. The notion smoothed as, again, my conscious rubbed away its sores. 

“I need to leave Harlow out of this.”

“Your fiancé was killed because he knew something. We want to know what it was.” 

HE CAME LOOKING FOR US

I sighed, plucking a screwdriver from a kitchen drawer and stepping atop my nightstand. Max used to call me cute for being so overprotective of my work. He’d laugh at me,  sometimes even coax me into leaving it on the desk, but now, I was relieved to have to retrieve my laptop from the ceiling vent, where it had remained safe from the intruders. I twisted it in my hands, for a while, again wondering what I was about to get into.

I rummaged with the thought as I trudged down the stairs, out of my building, and into a taxi. The thought twisted, and softened as I told the driver the nearest address I could muster, and eventually found my way to the building I only sort-of remembered from last night. My skin crawled with the idea as it sickened and bettered all at once. 

“Ollie?” I asked, buzzing a random apartment, “Nate?” 

“If you’re talking about the newcomers, try 28.”

“Thanks,” I muttered sheepishly, releasing the button and pressing another, “you guys? It’s Harlow.”

Ollie’s voice filtered through the intercom. He apologized (again) for the other night, and swore not to bother me anymore. Nate yelled something, probably from across the room, and suddenly the buzzer was squirting blurry sound at me. 

 I swallowed, pressing the buzzer hard enough to get them to silence, “I want to know what’s on that flash-drive!”